


The Years Between

by grav_ity



Series: A Favourable Arrangement [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grav_ity/pseuds/grav_ity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes written for the Porn Battle XV: The Ides of Porn with just enough of a whiff of plot to count towards the series.</p><p> </p><p>(Or: the marriage is going pretty well)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On The Table

They have not done this before.

They have done a few things that are like it, she thinks, though thinking is rapidly becoming a lesser drive to the feel of his hand between her thighs. There was that time in the bath, and a few experiments involving the headboard. They are still new enough at this that she has a catalogue of discrete memories to choose from. This is new. 

It’s harvest, or at least it’s harvest down in Dale, and that means bread and beer and dancing. The dwarves have hosted the evening’s feast, cramming as many of their neighbours inside the Great Hall as they could. It’s the first real festival since Sigrid’s arrival Under the Mountain, and the first party since their wedding.

It’s the first time they’ve danced.

She leans forward to grip the table harder. She hadn’t had time to get out of her dress, but she can feel his heat through their clothes. Usually Fili leaves her dressing room to her privacy, but tonight, well, tonight is a special occasion after all.

They’d gone through several of the more staid dances favoured by the elders of Dale, and then her father’s generation had retired to the tables while the youths of the city set to more spritely numbers. Sigrid still counted herself among their numbers, married though she was, and Fili did not complain when she’d pulled him back out to the floor after only the briefest of refreshment.

Her husband, she has learned, loves to have his hands on her, and being given permission to do so in public has more or less the effect on him she’d been hoping. By the time the feast has come to a close, more because they’ve exhausted the musicians than anything else, his expression is perhaps less than politely speculative. They make their excuses rather quickly.

She is grateful that she is a tidy soul and has not left anything on the surface of her vanity table, because when she leans forward, he follows her. The beads in his mustache are cold on her neck, the only chilled part of him pressing down. His fingers are busy, where they stroke her, and soon she burns hotly enough to no longer feel any cold at all.

She had not expected him to follow her into her dressing room. She had thought only to leave off her jewelry, and let him strip her of the rest at his leisure, but instead he’d crowded her against the vanity, kicking the stool out of his way as he pressed heated kisses against her neck. She had felt his arousal and the rising tide of her own to match it, and decided that perhaps tonight she would be more adventurous than she’d anticipated.

The hand gripping her hip retreats, though the hand between her thighs continues to work, to devastating effect. She hears him fumble with his own belt and trousers one handed, and stifles a giggle. If he hears her, he might get it into his head to tease and she wants none of that at the moment. 

When he steps close again, his skin is hot against hers. She cannot help the whimper that escapes her when he leans back over to kiss her on the neck and his cock pushes close to, but not quiet where she wants it. She feels his mouth curl into a smile.

“Pretty Sigrid,” he says. “Did you like the dance?”

“Yes,” she says. And then because she cannot help it: “Fili, please.”

It’s not so much like that time in the tub after that. With her skirts rucked up she cannot feel him until just before he touches her, and she can’t see him either. She can tell he is enjoying that particularly aspect, because he keeps whispering it in her ear. Her knees buckle as she draws close to her peak, but between her husband and the table, she’s in no danger of falling. He stops just shy of her climax, and she nearly screams in frustration.

“Look,” he says, pulling gently on her hair with his teeth.

The lamps are lit, so when she raises her head she sees not darkness, but rather their reflections in her mirror. She’s seen him like this before, of course, aroused and unkempt with desire, but this is the first time she’s ever seen herself. Her hair is a ruin, of course, carefully arranged curls and neatly woven braids completely awry. Her face is a dark pink, her eyes are wide, her mouth open as she regains her breath.

This is what he sees, she realizes. This is what he wants, what he tries to provoke in her. She looks up at his reflection. He looks hungry for her. Hungry for her _like this_.

“Keep looking,” he says, and then finally, finally, he puts himself to use where she truly wants him.

She does her best to acquiesce, but it’s hard to keep her eyes open as he drives into her. His hands are over hers, curled around the table’s edge, and his breath is harsh in her ear. She is getting close again, and knows he is long past teasing, so she begs and begs him for more because she knows it will only egg him on.

She crests, crying out underneath him and losing her battle of wills with the mirror as she rests her forehead on the table top. She pushes back against him, desperate even as she comes, and by the time his thrusts become erratic she is well through it. He spends, and breathes hard against her neck, his own determination to watch them quelled as satisfyingly as her had been.

“You know,” Fili says at length, when he has the breath to speak but not to move, “The Midwinter Festival has a dance as well.”

Sigrid laughs, breathless and rather embarrassingly in love with her husband.

“In that case,” she tells him, “we ought to practice.”

They almost make it to the bed.


	2. Under the Mountain

The nights while he was gone, Sigrid had imagined this. His weight above her, his hands moving rough across her skin. The moment when he takes her, pushing as hard as she will bear. The alternative was to think about the other outcome. The one where he did not come back.

The mountain does not often betray them, but there are still weaknesses in its bones. Smaug had injured it, and its injuries could not be healed, only broken safely if caught in a timely manner. This hurt had almost been, but had shattered instead when Fili led a team to examine the damage, and had buried the lot of them alive in the mountain’s depths.

Three days of frantic excavations, during which time Sigrid had not even been permitted to carry water to the labourers, had been required to free the trapped dwarrows. They had emerged, dust-covered and with minor wounds, and a collective breath had been expelled. Even with dwarvish stone sense, detection of air or life beyond the rubble had been impossible.

When Fili finally comes home, Sigrid’s nerves have frayed beyond reason. A runner had come and told her when the last stones were moved, but after three days of being desperate to see the ruin for herself, she quailed in the face of what she might do once she got there. She does not wrestle with her indecision very long, because right on the heels of the messenger comes her husband, whole and safe and _home_.

She flies at him, unsure of what she intends to do until he catches her hands mid-strike and gathers her against his chest so tightly she thinks her ribs may break.

“Never,” she squeezes out, though air is rapidly becoming an issue. “Never ever ever ever.”

He silences her mouth with his, not bothering to make promises he can’t keep. The mountain must be made safe, and he must do his part, whether that is shoring up stone or slaying orcs. She knows it, but tonight she almost wishes he would lie.

What he does instead is push her backwards, pulling at her dress. He’s not wearing his coat, she realizes, though whether he left it off in the cave-in or in the infirmary she doesn’t know. She also doesn’t care, because he’s given up with the ties of her bodice and is making as to tear it instead.

She pushes away from him, harder than she means to, and shucks her dress over her head. She hadn’t planned to leave their rooms today, so she’s not wearing a shift underneath it, just her small-clothes. Those he does tear.

His laces are much simpler, and before too much longer she is on her back, her hands twisting into his hair as hard as she can while he drives into her, over and over and over again, with force unlike any that he has ever used before. It hurts, but it also makes her forget that they are still inside the mountain’s grasp, still surrounded by stone. Still buried alive, for all the pretty trappings that decorate the walls.

He doesn’t last very long, and comes with a moan that’s nearly feral. She’s humming with want, still angry and scared, but very aroused, and whimpers when he pulls out and rolls on to his back. That catches his attention, and he turns on his side to look at her.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, Sigrid.”

The lamps are all lit, so he can see her clearly. She wonders if the bruises are already mottling her skin, or if it’s just the redness that precedes them he sees. She winds her fingers into his.

“I would have stopped you,” she tells him. “If it was too much, I would have stopped you.”

“You could not have.” He flexes his fingers, and she feels the power of even his barest grip.

“You would have stopped,” she says.

He plainly doubts that, so she lies still as he checks her over for broken skin. She almost manages not to squirm when his fingers brush over the marks they’d left earlier on her thighs. Burn or no, she wants them back there, but she lets him lift her, and carry her towards the bath instead.

He carries her down the carved steps and sets her on her feet in the hottest part of the pool. When she first came to live with him, she’d thought the bath a luxury beyond imagining – hot water whenever one wished it – but now that she knows how it works, it seems less extreme. Clean water is brought in, and the old is then cycled out by means of a wheel. The wheel itself is powered by the same system that operates the airflow in that part of Erebor, and is somehow connected all the way back to the main forges themselves. When the Mountain works, it works very well.

The near-scalding water swirls around her waist, and he stands behind her. His touch is soft now, his kisses feather-light across her shoulders and neck. Three day's of worry melt beneath the press of his lips to her skin, and she finds herself suddenly exhausted.

She wilts, as much from the heat as anything else, and he steers her towards the cooler water, and the bench there. He pulls her across his lap once they sit down, and begins to kiss her collar bone as he had her back. She marvels at his dedication. He must be tired as well.

“There wasn’t much to do, except sit and wait,” Fili says eventually, either reading her mind or making conversation. She’s too worn to tell. “We couldn’t touch anything, for fear of bringing more down. We just had to hope aid was coming.”

“They wouldn’t let me help,” she says. He’s kissing her again. Softly, but like he’ll never stop. “All I could do was sit and wait too.”

“Sigrid,” he says.

“It’s all right,” she tells him. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

She repeats it several more times, and then the tears come. It’s not a storm or a rage, like it might have been earlier in the day if she’d let herself break. It’s quiet and he kisses the salt from her cheeks until she calms.

They crawl under the covers, naked and damp, and cling to one another all night long, while the Mountain keeps its stony blanket wrapped around them.

+++

To Be Continued


	3. Experience

The fur rug is soft under Sigrid’s knees, and Fili’s hands are in her hair.

She’s naked, having not bothered to dress after her evening ablutions. They like to make a game of laces and ties, but tonight Sigrid has other, somewhat more direct plans. He’d been reading when she came out of her dressing room, and hadn’t looked at her until she was right in front of him.

Once, she might have blushed at the way his eyes travel up her body, but she is not that girl any more. The years have given them understanding and comfort, and haven’t doused any of her desires. Rather the opposite, actually. Now, she can kneel in front of him, clad in naught but her long hair and match his gaze. She can unlace his trousers without looking, and know how very much she is wanted.

As delicately as she can, she licks a wet stripe along his length, root to tip. She is rewarded with a groan, and with tightening fingers against her scalp. She does not get to tease him very often – they are neither of them particularly patient. She wets her lips, and then takes him into her mouth.

The first time she’d slid down in front of him like this, he’d tried to stop her.

“You don’t have to,” he’d said.

“I know.”

“Sigrid.” Another protest, though she could see how his eyes darkened. And somehow she had known. So she’d smiled at him.

“I’ll still have teeth.”

He hadn’t tried to stop her after that.

Now, she keeps the pressure of her mouth as light as possible. If she were trying to bring him off, she would add a hand, but she has other plans. His hands flatten against the back of her head, and she feels coils of hair brush across her shoulders. It tickles, and she laughs around him.

This time he gathers up her hair with intent, ghosting touches across her bare skin until she’s giggling in earnest, and has to pull back or risk accidentally biting him.

“Now I have you,” he crows, pushing on her shoulders.

She seizes his hands as she falls. He lands on top of her, a welcome weight to complement the growing heat between her thighs. He’s still completely dressed, save for where she’s undone his trousers, but Sigrid is in no mood to be patient.

“Yes,” she breathes, a hand busy between them. “Imagine the possibilities.”

He’s still laughing when he takes her, ruthlessly using her bared skin to press his advantage, though she’s not entirely sure what he’s distracting her from. All she can really do is fist her hands into his tunic, low, to keep him close. Of course, he’s not exactly interested in pulling away, either. She doesn’t really care how much he tickles her, so long as he doesn’t stop moving.

When she tells him as much, words squeezed out between gasps, he smiles. She can see him thinking, taking the moment she’s given him to decide if he’s going to tease her, payment for her earlier soft touch, or finish what she’s started as determinedly as possible.

He chooses the latter.

It doesn’t take very long after that. The same experience that lets them tease also lets them be profoundly thorough, in turn. She gives over breathy moans for darker sounds, and with each utterance he drives harder. At last, she calls his name and comes, and then it’s just a few more hard thrusts before he follows, pressing his face into her shoulder as the wave crests.

It takes a few heart beats for her to realize that he is laughing again, working teeth and tongue against her shoulder.

“What is it?” she asks, still too short of breath to be entirely polite.

“I’m still wearing my boots,” he says.

She feels the laughter bubbling before she can’t keep it in any longer. He rolls, so that she is on top of him, and kicks against the floor, baring his feet as she goes to work on his tunic. By the time they’re both naked, he’s stirring against her, and it’s her hair brushing against his chest that starts them off again.


	4. Well Laid Plans

_“Spontaneity is very nice, dear, but there’s a great deal of charm in a well-planned seduction.” – Polgara the Sorceress, “The Demon Lord of Karanda”, by David Eddings_

Tonight, there are no games, no tricks, no play. He likes that just fine, of course, and has learned all the ways to wind her up and how he likes to be wound himself. Tonight he wants none of it. Tonight, he is simply going to take her apart.

_The forge fires are hot enough to flay the skin off a Man, but Fili has the hands of a dwarf, and he can stand the waves of heat. There are tools he could use, of course, and he uses them in turn. The crucible to hold the molten metal over the fire. The tongs to brace the piece long enough for it to set in the mold. But for the finest parts, the filigree and the decorations so delicate they might have been lacework, for those he uses his fingers. They are deft and clever, and do not burn._

She figures it out during dinner. He has not been subtle. The dishes he requested are her favourites, a mix of the practical, homey dishes from Dale, and those from farther abroad. He sees the moment she catches on, because she swallows deliberately. Then she asks for the wine, and her hand lingers on his as he pours.

_Dwarves do not mark the years as Men do, cherishing each one as it passes. Fili marks deeds, not dates, in his gifts to her. The chains of gold and silver from when he courted her. The jeweled riddle box from when they began to puzzle one another out. This will be his most ambitious piece so far, not because of the expense, but because of the intricacies. He was correct, all those years ago, when he surmised that her taste in jewelry would be different from a dwarrowdam’s. He does not mind. He has always been creative._

There are too many pins in her hair. She favours simple styles, generally speaking, and her hair is coiled thus, but it is over-anchored. His fingers drift across the tops of her ears and along the back of her neck more than usual. Apparently he is not the only one who made plans.

_He stops in the kitchens after he sets the piece aside to cool. They are preparing a feast for the main Hall, but Fili has requested a separate menu. The cooks are always happy to indulge their prince, and happier still to indulge their lady. They keep their faces studiously straight when he addresses himself to them, a step up from Kili, who mocked his transparency. They assure him everything will be perfect, and wait until the believe him to be out of earshot before they catcall at their lord’s intent._

He does not take the opportunity to tease her. He doesn’t have to. Instead, he undresses her, and himself, and sweeps her into his arms. Once they are abed, he sets to bringing her off, hands busy between her thighs and mouth deliberately seeking out all the spots he knows will fan the flame. She crests, and before she is through it, he slides down to replace his hands with his mouth.

_Back at the forges, he examines the piece for flaws and finds none. He polishes it until the sapphire gleams in its setting, and the gold tendrils shine like the sun. He attaches the chain and checks the clasp. Everything is in order. A bell rings, marking time for the mountain, and he knows that if he hurries, he will have enough time to bathe away the soot before Sigrid gets home. He will also have time to put the necklace somewhere in her vanity where she won’t find it until later._

She comes again, his name on her lips, and he barely remembers to wipe his mouth before kissing his way up her body. He braces himself on his elbows, linking his fingers with hers to hold her hands beside her head. He hovers for just a moment, eyes locked with hers, and then sinks into her. The pace he sets is not so slow to be torturous, but it is markedly thorough. She matches him, eyelids fluttering and she arches and begins to lose control again.

_The plates arrive just as Sigrid does. If she is surprised to learn they’re not going to eat with the others, she does not show it. In fact, if Fili doesn’t miss the mark, she looks a little pleased. That bodes well. He hands her into her chair as though it were a formal dinner in truth, but by the time he takes his seat, it’s just the two of them, and the air is heavy with expectation. He takes up his fork, and doesn’t even try to stop himself from smiling._

Afterwards, she clings to him. His arms are tight around her, and he can feel her heart pounding against his chest as their breathing calms. He is drifting towards sleep before he means to; he had other plans, but he can’t remember why they were so important. It’s comfortable, so he links his hands with hers again, and lets sleep take them away.

_They do not speak of the morrow, when he will go to the Iron Hills. It’s not a dangerous venture, or at least no more dangerous than anywhere else, but he must visit Dain’s court, and it will be a long month before his return. Instead, they share portions from the same dish, hands touching by chance, and then by less than chance as the meal progresses._

The light is grey when he wakes. She shifts on his chest as he moves to get up, but stills when he tells her to stay abed. When he returns, she is awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, the blanket pulled around her for warmth.

“Maker grant you safe roads,” she says.

He kneels between her feet, and pulls her down for a kiss. In it are the promises he will not say. He is a dwarf, and his works and deeds will speak for him. She will find the necklace soon enough, and he will be only too happy to take it from her neck when he has come back home again.

+++

**finis**

**Author's Note:**

> Gravity_Not_Included, February 9, 2014
> 
> Thank you all again so much for reading, commenting, and even talking this fic up on tumblr! Part III is under construction as we speak.


End file.
